Уильям Барнс (William Barnes)

First Collection. Fall. A Zong ov Harvest Hwome

The ground is clear. There’s nar a ear
 O’ stannèn corn a-left out now,
Vor win’ to blow or raïn to drow;
 ’Tis all up seäfe in barn or mow.
 Here’s health to them that plough’d an’ zow’d;
 Here’s health to them that reap’d an’ mow’d,
 An’ them that had to pitch an’ lwoad,
 Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

An’ mid noo harm o’ vire or storm
 Beval the farmer or his corn;
An’ ev’ry zack o’ zeed gi’e back
 A hunderd-vwold so much in barn.
 An’ mid his Meäker bless his store,
 His wife an’ all that she’ve a-bore,
 An’ keep all evil out o’ door.
 Vrom Harvest Hwome to Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

Mid nothèn ill betide the mill,
 As day by day the miller’s wheel
Do dreve his clacks, an’ heist his zacks,
 An’ vill his bins wi’ show’rèn meal:
 Mid’s water never overflow
 His dousty mill, nor zink too low,
 Vrom now till wheat ageän do grow,
 An’ we’ve another Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

Drough cisterns wet an’ malt-kil’s het,
 Mid barley paÿ the malter’s païns;
An’ mid noo hurt bevall the wort,
 A-bweilèn vrom the brewer’s graïns.
 Mid all his beer keep out o’ harm
 Vrom bu’sted hoop or thunder storm,
 That we mid have a mug to warm
 Our merry hearts nex’ Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

Mid luck an’ jaÿ the beäker pay,
 As he do hear his vier roar,
Or nimbly catch his hot white batch,
 A-reekèn vrom the oven door.
 An’ mid it never be too high
 Vor our vew zixpences to buy,
 When we do hear our childern cry
 Vor bread, avore nex’ Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

Wi’ jaÿ o’ heart mid shooters start
 The whirrèn pa’tridges in vlocks;
While shots do vlee drough bush an’ tree,
 An’ dogs do stan’ so still as stocks.
 An’ let em ramble round the farms
 Wi’ guns ’ithin their bended eärms,
 In goolden zunsheen free o’ storms,
 Rejaïcèn vor the Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

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